


scares me half to death

by cascrane (thunder_and_stars)



Series: a dream deferred [10]
Category: no sleep in the city of dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:34:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28721457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thunder_and_stars/pseuds/cascrane
Summary: dreams are what you make them.you can make them real.
Series: a dream deferred [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2105190





	scares me half to death

“ _ shut up! _ ” an angry voice yells from across the room. “ _ nobody cares! _ ”

he knows better than this. he bites at his lip, to silence himself, bites until something gives and the horrible metallic taste of copper and crimson fills his mouth and coats his tongue, slick and warm and terribly familiar.

_ nobody cares. _

he knows better. 

his room is cold, the thermostat broken years ago, and the old metal heater rattle-click-pops as it tries valiantly to provide some warmth despite the blustery cold of the season. faded wallpaper bubbles at the edges where spots of mold darken its print, and the years-greyed pale green paint of the ceiling cracks and flakes and chips away, leaving strange shapes in its wake, sharp edges and bubbling patterns.

his sneakers sit in the alcove by the front door, muddied soles and dirtied laces out of place amongst the other neatly lined shoes, black and brown and polished until they shine, never marred by a speck of dirt. the old black canvas sneakers are the only sign on individuality that he is allowed, most days.

his white socks, perfectly clean, as they must be, barely brush the dark floors, the chill of the cold, bare, hardwood barely filtered away by the thin fabric. black trousers, hems just an inch too low but uncuffed, crisp and neat, starkly contrast the light blue sheets of the bed. stiff cuffs of a white shirt ironed out far too many times brush over his thumbs, all the clothes nice and neat and clean and just a bit too big, as if they belong to someone else.

the navy blue tie and blazer from school are discarded, draped neatly over the back of a wooden chair or hung in the closet where they belong. nothing is ever out of place.

a door down the hall slams shut, loud and angry. something falls with a bang-crash-crack, glass shattering. the sound is far too familiar. someone yells against, distantly.

“ _ go to sleep _ ,” an angry voice outside the open door and just out of sight demands. 

he doesn’t know if they mean him.

he turns off the light and lies down atop his sheets nonetheless. slowly, one by one, the lights throughout the house (not a home, not  _ his home _ , for home shouldn’t feel as this does) click off as the doors slam-rattle-screech-squeak-bang-crash shut, and the voices dissipate into the swelling darkness of winter nights.

later, when everything is quiet, he finds the courage to stand and creep back to the room where he left his backpack, where his book is. he passes through the dining room. two chairs are on their sides on the floor. the table is crooked. a fork is plunged into the wood of it at one end, a knife jammed in the back of a chair elsewhere. shards of broken glass and ceramic litter the floor. in the morning, it will be gone, as if only there due to a feverish dream, and the nightmare will finally start again, with no chance of waking up.

he finds his book in his backpack, where he left it. he takes it quietly to his room and sits awake, reading.

in the darkness, the world around him shifts and twists and flutters, changing and reordering itself. “it doesn’t have to be like that,” a voice in his ear whispers, soft and breathless and whimsical. “dreams are what you make them. you can make them real.”

_ nobody cares about what you have to say. _

it comes to a stuttering halt.

_ nobody cares. _

he focuses on the pages of his book.

“dreams are what you make them. make them real. make it all go away,” the voice says again. “it’s your dream.”

he spends the night reading. he doesn’t sleep, doesn’t wake,  _ doesn’t dream _ .

_ you can make it all just go away. _

he sits at the table for breakfast. everything is neat and organized. he goes to school. classes are merely a bore, professors droning on for hours, and he learns nothing. the bell rings. he walks home.

everything repeats. saturday comes. it passes. sunday rolls around as the grey sun peers over the horizon, and the nightmare restarts. monday, tuesday, and wednesday pass, repetitive and empty. thursday starts the cycle again, and he walks to school. he sits in the gym with all the other students, desks pushed into neat rows, and stares at the thick test booklet and single sharpened pencil they place in front of him.

friday comes, and the nightmare is reawakened once more.

except this time, the phone rings.

“ _ your son is not being accepted into our upper school _ ,” the voice over the phone crackles. “ _ he will not be invited back to hayfern preparatory school next year. _ ”

the phone is in pieces on the floor, plastic twisted and crushed, pieces of it broken away, and the batteries roll across the wood until they bump into walls.

the faded colors of his room are suffocating.

when september rears its head once more, he takes the bus to school. he wears the same uniform as always. he goes to a different building. the students here are louder. they wears jeans and t-shirts and hoodies. he feels sorely out of place.

“ _ you should have done better _ ,” the booming voice accuses him this time. “ _ how dare you disgrace our name like that? _ ”

_ (how dare you have a panic attack during an important test?)  _

_ how dare you disrupt your classmates like this?  _

_ you’re nothing but a disappointment. _

he takes the bus to school. he sits alone in his new classes. he knows the material already, by heart, drilled into him by his previous school. he is the outsider, unwanted and unnatural and  _ strange _ .

he is a stranger in his home. 

he wears black jeans and a white t-shirt to school, the very most he can get away with. words spoken to him during meals sound of thinly veiled threats and promises of future retribution.

he sits quietly through meals. he reads, writes notes on biochemistry, types essays about american literature. he prints them out in his english classroom before the bell rings. things like that are not allowed in his home.

he is quiet in classes. he never raises his hand. his always neatly trimmed blonde hair grows long enough to fall into his eyes. he always has the answers when teachers call on him. nobody in his home answers calls from the school. he shows to his own parent-teacher conferences, alone, and they tell him that he can go home.

the teachers wonder about him, sometimes. mostly, he goes unnoticed.

a boy in his class with penny copper hair and eyes like frozen amber gives him a crimson hoodie. he never takes it off.

_ dreams are what you make them. you can make them real. _

he wakes with a start, heart seizing in his chest as he jolts awake and upright.


End file.
